Never
by TheRegnant
Summary: Too often when she was awake, his sister carried herself as though every mistake the Seven had ever made had been sewn into her skin. Cersei/Jaime, book fans will find this very OOC, after 6x01, ONESHOT


A/N: There is a slight convergence of book and show canon in this. It follows the show canon and takes place during the time of 06x01, but I have borrowed certain elements of book backstory, mainly the _valonqar_ element of the prophecy. Some of the things were not mentioned in the show, but made sense to be mentioned here.

Never

" _I'm going to make things better."_

He'd truly meant the words at the time. He almost had done. There was a certain swell of pride in his chest when he'd brought her down to her chambers below decks. Not only had he done _exactly_ what he promised Cersei he would, he was going to unite them the way they should have been from the beginning. He was going to tell her the truth. And then when he did, when she said that she knew, that she was glad…

" _I'm glad that you're my father."_

The grin playing at her petite lips had haunted Jaime's dreams that night. Perhaps it would for the rest of his life. When she got to the _f_ in "father," it became just as Cersei had said. Her lips pulled back from her teeth, her skin dehydrated and turned to a hard obsidian, like Mother surely had decades ago, but in a single beat, just before his eyes. When he reached out to touch her, to try to pull her to him before she went, there was a flicker of cold before she shattered into a thousand flecks of gold, floating down forever, for in the dream, there was no ground beneath them anymore.

The lion's pride had dissipated in an instant, just like her.

He was upright before he realized he was even awake. The candles in Cersei's chamber were smoldering low, and it was only half aglow. Shadows danced on the tawny walls and scarlet sheets, conniving silhouettes garbed in Lannister riches and Targaryen blood. When he had collected his breath, Jaime looked over to see her there. In her own sleep, she seemed to have found more peace tonight than he himself had seen in a matter of months. That was his twin's way, though: She spent each waking moment plotting the demise of her demons lest they infest her slumber. She had shifted in the covers since they had taken their rest despite the stillness of the moment, though. The crimson sheet constricted around her breasts, and it was trapped under her curving back, exposing the skin of her stomach, flowing atop one milky thigh and then disappearing and bunching under the other. She was more or less in the altogether now. _She must be cold like that,_ he mused. Leaning over to shield her from the chills of the coming winter, his hands soon wandered from the blankets to her sides.

The skin bared in the night air was certainly not as it had always been. A flat sliver of mother's apron sat upon her abdomen fractured by shocks of electricity, the bolts somehow even brighter than their alabaster skin. The marks adorned her like moonlight; The contrast completed her, he thought, making the Sun of the Seven Kingdoms absurdly even more beautiful than the day she was born, the day that they were born. _She has aged just like a fine wine,_ he thought, chuckling just to himself in the dark.

The calloused digits of his good hand skated nimbly over the icy impressions on her hips. His index finger traced and recorded the tempests of time in halcyon undulations, for each mark had a story. He had observed the appearance of each one at its time of inception, to be sure. Four long and deep marks on her left hip, and five on the right. Those had come at the start of her womanly growth. Countless tiny ones surrounded and merged with those nine, encircling her center and decorating the tops of her porcelain thighs. Those had come from the loss and gain of weight from development, three pregnancies, and Cersei's overindulgence in the pleasures of wine as of late. Jaime smiled to himself. Being a twin, Cersei had always hated the disparity between her two sides. In her eyes, symmetry was akin to beauty.

Jaime's hand wandered upward toward her stomach. The streaks there squirmed in each direction, many white and flush to the skin, but some still red and gaping. The marks eclipsed and crisscrossed there, painting his sister's belly with angry sunbursts of sun and moon, frost and flame. He grazed each one lightly, recalling rubbing oil over them, and the blank slate of her abdomen before they were ever there, touching her belly as it burgeoned more by the day, and again once it shrank with the relief of birth, caressing the skin in comfort when the children just beneath had made her too sick. Joffrey had been the worst with that, he remembered sadly, _the worst even before his birth. That never stopped her loving him._ Perhaps his favorite memory from any of Cersei's quickenings was one particular evening when she could not get to sleep. She'd bid him do something to make the child stop moving, for court would resume early in the morning, and it was not the first night they had spent this way. He had pressed sweet kisses to her stomach in the name of the babe inside, and whispered "Hush now, little one, Mama needs her rest, and you'll be out in this world soon enough." All had quieted, then, he remembered, and the three had found a rare instance of peace.

Myrcella had been born just one month and two days later. He had loved her the moment he saw her, and instantaneously known that in some way, it would serve to undo him in time. _I never thought those notions would culminate in_ this _way, of all things…_

Loving his only daughter from afar had always pained him in one fashion or another. He had gotten few precious moments with her before her "lord father," the King, had returned from hunting. As he had before, he presented Cersei with a trophy, a great stag's head, in honor of the new babe's naming, _though of course he'd had no part in it._ Upon seeing that she was neither virile of gender or black of hair, Robert had all but discarded her, and the sight had glaciated Jaime's golden heart. He certainly couldn't stomach the idea of Myrcella cursed with _two_ fathers, neither of which could, or _would_ , love her properly, so he had immediately taken the role of "Uncle Jaime" as seriously as Cersei would allow. He fed and held his "niece" during the nights of her infancy when he was home in King's Landing, showered her with nameday gifts, taught her how to fence with wooden swords, and told her gallant tales of his days at the head of her Grandfather's golden army of lions and gods. Jaime's heart had glowed in awe when one day he had overheard her recounting the events of their day to her mother, calling him her favorite person in this world, "apart from you, Mama." He wondered if Myrcella had understood the tears brimming in her mother's eyes as such a young and tender age.

Robert had not only discarded his daughter at that time, though. It made Jaime perhaps a thousand times as angry when he had come upon his sister in a state of tear-blurred fury after one of their awful encounters, as each one undoubtedly was. "He thinks I am ugly now," she had finally admitted, but only quietly and amidst hitching breath after at least five attempts at finding out why she was so angry. The second pregnancy had certainly not been as easy on her body; Was Robert really so daft not to think she would be the first one to notice, though? Her husband had prodded too hard at her leonine pride, and she was nearly driven mad this time, too serious and stormy to laugh at the follies before her, too stiff and staunch to cry at them all the same. "I told him the feeling was mutual, and so he gave me a gift for it." His sister had dropped her dressing gown to reveal awful purple handprints scorning her alabaster arms, sniffling ever so slightly as she had assessed the anger on Jaime's face. "Imagine," she'd grimaced, "trading one set of marks, just for another. Silver for violet. I suppose he must separate the idea of a Queen and a broodmare in his puny mind, though he had come tonight tipsy and angry, only to use me, not to honor me at all." She had given him a child, or so he presumably believed, and he had refused to suffer the _consequences_ , up until he found himself drunk enough one evening some fortnights after the birth. The two had shared a long silver night after the King had stumbled from his Queen's solar, as silver as the marks that textured her skin. Jaime had never found fault with the evidence imprinted on her skin: After all, he had truly been the one to put it there. He sought to adore her always, and their second son was born only a year and some days after Myrcella.

Spitefully, the knight found himself treasuring the idea that Robert had never had a true claim to any of his heirs, and hating the idea that Cersei hadn't let him be the one to kill Robert himself. He would have gladly become twice a Kingslayer, a thousand times an Oathbreaker, to avenge his sister's broken skin and his daughter's broken heart.

Thinking back further, he could recall the night that Myrcella was made, here in this very room, this very bed. Cersei had summoned him to her chamber on the night of their nameday to celebrate, and her husband was away. She'd had the servants bring them a luxurious dinner of their favorite foods, exotic Essosi fruits, seasoned and steamed crabs, asparagus, pheasant, and two large decanters of spiced wine. After they were full, they had exchanged gifts. He had procured for her a choker necklace of gold, rubies, and emeralds, and she'd had a lion helm of gilded steel smithed for him. After a bit too much wine, she'd put her lips at his ear and made a great confession. He could still feel the thrilling words at his neck; It was her fertile time, she said, she hadn't been drinking moon tea, and so she'd admitted what she'd _really_ wanted for her nameday. Though she loved their son with all her heart, she wanted a Princess, a playmate, a little lioness to pass the jewelry he gave her onto once they both had gone from this world, a child of purpose rather than just the stars smiling upon the two of them one silent silver night.

When he had initially protested, " _Sweet sister, are you quite sure?"_ she'd promised that she would pass it off, that it would be alright, and that he would be grateful to see the little girl born, that he could hold the babe this time. That prospect _had_ excited him, and so they had loved softly and slowly, ambitiously, though, the night a combination of desire and design. His twin had wanted to be sure that it would happen tonight, so they had congressed three times. Surely enough, in nine short moons, the daughter she'd bid him to give her had come into the world. Cersei had taken Cella into her arms the moment the stuff of birth had been cleansed from her; Jaime did not have his moment in the sun until the midwife and septas had cleansed themselves from the birthing room.

 _But have it I did._

Jaime was pulled from his reverie by her noises. She stirred under his touch for a moment before seeming to adjust herself and return to rest. He smiled darkly. At times, he wished that more of the world could see her this way. With anyone else, she maintained airs of strength and separation; her words were often crystalline breaths of arctic cruelty. He savored her moments of peace the most, especially when she was drowsing, heavy with wine or sleep. Too often when she was awake, his sister carried herself as though every mistake the Seven had ever made had been sewn into her skin. Perhaps that was why she was so desperate to snake her way inside of his own, to seep together, to relieve the pressure. He would have gladly borne the guilt of the Known World to see the security she'd once enjoyed grace her face in a smile.

There was an intake of breath, then, and a high-pitched sound of clear fear escaped her mouth. Her eyes were still closed, clamped tight against whatever had frightened her in her dream. He brought his face closer to hers to hear what she was murmuring. "Little brother, don't… Come back…" _Little brother? Is she dreaming of Tyrion?_ Upon hearing he words on her lips, he began shaking her, carefully, just a little.

"Cersei," he started gently, "Cersei, wake up."

She wasn't waking up, though, and she had begun to shake, nearly convulsing. He gathered her into his arms gingerly, willing it to be over as soon as possible. It wasn't the first time he had seen her this way. After the Purple Wedding, she'd had her share of night terrors, and he knew that sometimes they continued as delusions for quite some time after she woke. The nightmares had seemed to cease for a few months up until tonight. _It only makes sense that they would start again._ Now, it seemed that she was having trouble getting quite enough air, and she was crying out, tears soaking her perfect face, the rest of her thinly veiled in sweat. As though the tangled sheet was somehow strangling her, she started to cough and sputter in his hands, her own reaching in front of her, grasping, but of course, finding nothing.

He began shaking her in earnest, worrying that she could descend too far too fast, bite her tongue, swallow it. "Cersei, it's me, Jaime, it's your brother. It's only a dream, you just need to wake up now."

Her lips seemed to form a word he didn't know, a word not of this world, or at least not of this side of it. No discernable sound at all came out anymore, though. Her breath was too far gone; Smothered cries were the best her throat could do. _Something with a V?_ he wondered. _What is she saying? Who could she be talking to?_

Her eyes flew open, and her hands were at his face, emerald eyes terrified, aghast, seeing a ghost. Something seemed to register in them, then, and she relaxed in his hands, one warm as the morning sun, the other ever cold as the Stranger's kiss. "It was a dream."

"Of course, my love, only a dream. No one will harm you while I live," he breathed next to her, glad to hear her voice again.

She blinked rapidly several times, gaining her view of the world back. "It was you," she managed, chuckling softly at the apparent irony of his kind words.

His brow cocked upward, incredulous. "…Me?"

"Yes. It was today, I think. You came back, with… Her." Jaime winced. _It may be quite some time until either of us may easily say her name again._ "I got angry, I blamed you. You got angrier. You blamed me for most everything else. You hit me with your hand," she gasped, quiet, scarcely daring to say the words, her fingers wrapping absently around his golden palm, her eyes gracing it for a few moments. "Your golden hand. Right in the face. I remember seeing my blood on it. And choking on it. It felt like I was drowning, in the blood and the tears." She turned up to look at him now. "My teeth flew across the sand of the beach and washed into the sea. You turned to leave me to bleed in the dark on the shore. I begged you to come back to me, so you did… Only to strangle me."

He sat silently as she spoke, motionless save for his good hand holding her at the nape of her neck, coalescing with her, their bodies and breath mingling, much more easily now that she was talking about it. He prayed that he might merge back with her, to regain the trust he'd seemed to have a firm grasp on until they'd gone to sleep. "I would not do that," he said plainly.

"And then," she continued, seeming to pay his words little mind, "when you were choking me, your face turned into hers… And then Joff's." A darkness settled over her viridian gaze. "When I finally woke up, you were him." She moved to clutch the sides of his handsome face, her mirror. "I do see him in you so often. He looked like you, in a certain light."

" _We_ look just alike," he reminded her with a light smile, teasing.

His jape did not go unnoticed, but it did not serve lighten the tone of the moment either, nor the dimness clouding her eyes, two pools of wildfire that usually burned so brilliantly among the predative players of King's Landing, always one step ahead, and often two. He hated seeing that brilliance taken from her, no less by him, or the _him_ that she had imagined.

"The witch told me this would happen, too… 'And when your tears have drowned you, the _valonqar_ shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you.'"

"Little brother," he said. It was not a question; Rather, the question resided on her face instead.

"How did you… How did you know that?"

"You know father made me learn to read for four hours a day when we were children… I hated him for it at the time. He taught me some old Valyrian words aside from the Common Tongue, though. He said if I could pronounce them, I could pronounce anything. And I remember that one because, well, I _had_ a little brother."

 _Had._ _Until he killed our lord father._

Jaime had not misspoken, and the fact was not lost on either of them.

"I always thought it was about Tyrion, you know," she continued, seemingly even more daunted by his knowing the word she had apparently kept secret for decades, even from him. "I never thought it was about you."

"The Others take the witch," he said, frowning. "The Others take them all. No harm will come to you," he insisted. "I will protect you, you and Tommen, from anything, from everything, even from myself, even from you. That's what I was put on this Earth to do."

It was true, too. Even in their youth, he had jumped a hundred feet into the water to save her from drowning. He had pulled her curious left hand from the hearth when she got too close, and nestled in close to her under warm blankets when the thunder at the Rock had been too loud. _"Just the lions roaring,"_ he had soothed her. _"One day, we shall be just as loud and earn the fear of all Seven Kingdoms."_

She grabbed him by his short hair harshly, forcing four emerald eyes to lock together. "Promise me, Jaime," she bemoaned. "Ill is coming. Treachery. War. The atonement was only the beginning. Don't begone." Her face grew closer and closer to his, the brim of her bow mouth just a glimpse from his own. "We are the only ones in this world," she echoed softly, vulnerably. "Don't let me go."

Their lips collapsed together with a certain finality when she had finished, the kiss a mess of anger and anguish and the taste of words they must leave unsaid in front of anyone else at all, hates and loves and lineage. The burden of murder weighed heavily upon the two for several moments, and they dared not separate, not to speak, not to inhale, not for every enemy in the world.

When he took his next breath, its sole purpose was the reverberation of one word against her lips.

" _Never."_


End file.
